


By The Water

by Apple_Bottom_Beans, DanielVanDerLinde



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Drama, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Cheating, Cigarettes, Cigars, Drama, Drama & Romance, Drowning, Emotional, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Kissing, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, Punching, Romance, Slapping, Surprise Kissing, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27099340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apple_Bottom_Beans/pseuds/Apple_Bottom_Beans, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanielVanDerLinde/pseuds/DanielVanDerLinde
Summary: Prompt: Dutch van der Linde in afforded an opportunity to go back in time and change something bad that happened in the past regarding his relationship with Susan Grimshaw.
Relationships: Annabelle/Dutch van der Linde, Molly O'Shea/Dutch van der Linde, Susan Grimshaw/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. It's beautiful, isn't it?

Miss Susan Grimshaw; middle-aged, bossy, and cold-hearted.

At least, that’s how the camp would describe her; the newer members. But, the original members remembered her younger days when she laughed more than she smoked and smiled more than she drank. She’d always been an unstoppable force.

The difference between then and now? She’d tell you that she simply matured, and that compassion is for little girls and their little fantasies. But old members, such as Arthur Morgan or Hosea Matthews, would tell you that heartbreak changed her.

* * *

Miss Grimshaw marched over to Dutch van der Linde, stopping a few feet away. With hands on her hips, she spoke.

“You need to have a talk with Miss O’Shea. She’s upset.” Her tone was scolding. “Again,” she added, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, I'm sure it will pass," Dutch replied casually. His eyes never strayed as he turned the page of his latest Evelyn Miller book. "Again."

She narrowed her eyes at the man before her, leaning forward slightly. “Oh, I hope it passes. Before I make it pass.” She crossed her arms over her chest as she continued. “She’s lucky I ain’t laid a hand on her yet. Though, Miss Jones has.” Miss Grimshaw smirked. “That woman of yours deserved it.”

A heavy sigh left Dutch as irritation burned in his veins. He raised his eyes to meet the arbiter's gaze, closing his book with a sharp sound and cast it aside onto his cot.

"Well, that's her business," Dutch offered in a gruff tone. He glared up at his old friend with a sneer on his lips. "You'll do no such thing. As for Miss Jones..."

Dutch stood to his full height and mirrored Susan's body language; arms crossed and brown eyes narrowed. The vein in his forehead bulged in his controlled anger. He couldn't recall a time when Susan had the figurative testicular fortitude to antagonize him in such a way.

"Oh, I'm certain Miss O'Shea brought it upon herself as she does with her other...miseries," Dutch said as he pulled a cigar from his pocket and stuck it between his teeth, but continued to glare at Susan. "Are we done here?"

Miss Grimshaw's smirk quickly faded as he stood, towering over her. She furrowed her brows and scowled. "You better get that child under control. Or I will." She quirked a brow, challenging him to argue.

"I better?" Dutch removed the unlit cigar from his mouth and gestured to her. "I better?" He repeated a second time with a bit of spite dripping from his words.

"Who are you to threaten me?" Dutch's voice was a quiet rage. He knew her intent, but went a long with it anyway. Things hadn't be good--hell, things had been awful--near dire lately. He almost welcomed this conflict.

"Where is your respect?" He demanded. "Must I remind you of your place here, Miss Grimshaw? Have your forgotten the way of things? Surely, you're aren't so foolish that a simple minded child has got you reduced to _this_." Dutch gestured to her, again.

"Perhaps, I have misjudged you." Dutch stared her down with every ounce of malice he could muster as he lit his cigar and took a long drag, exhaling the smoke in her direction.

"After all, this is _my_ goddamn camp." The gang leader paused and regarded her expression for a moment. This argument--this impending altercation wouldn't do anyone any ounce of good. He had to be the strong one--the level headed one that kept the faith alive and she had to be the glue that held the camp together.

"If I say we are done, we are done." Dutch took another drag. "And, I say we are done, miss."

_'Reduced to this.'_

Her anger deflated. Her arms dropped to her sides. And she spoke, voice even and quiet, "Okay." With eyes downcast, she turned and left.

She knows what she is.

And she's ashamed.

As Susan departed, Dutch stared after her and indulged in his cigar. The immediate change in Susan's demeanor, quick word, and departure--it didn't sit right with him; caused a twisting and sinking feeling to settle in his gut.

Unsatisfied, Dutch stubbed out his cigar and followed after Susan.

"Miss Grimshaw," Dutch hollered. His voice cracked on the final syllable.

She'd just passed the girls' wagon when _he_ called her name. She stopped but didn't turn. Just raised her head.

"What is it, Mr. Van der Linde?" Her voice was eerily sweet, as if their prior conversation hadn't happened at all.

Someone once told her that they admired how well she handles emotion. The comment had made her laugh. No one's good with their emotions; only liars. And, she'd always been a good liar.

Come to think of it, it was _him_ who had said that.

At the strangeness in Susan's voice, Dutch hesitated in his speech. He was certain that she'd be frustrated with him at a minimum.

Because of the continued bizarre feeling in his gut, Dutch considered dismissing himself; turning on his heel, and resuming his book, but his weary mind wandered.

Things hadn't been good between Molly and him in quite some time. He hadn't ever met a woman with so many needs. The girl didn't raise a finger or contribute to the camp. He didn't care so much about that as she was with him, but her incessant nags, demands, and complaints were most off putting. Hell, when she breathed within his proximity, he nearly lost his goddamn mind!

After a moment longer of dwelling on Miss O'Shea, Dutch's mind wandered to Miss Grimshaw, who was his oldest and most dearest friend (besides that Hosea Matthews of course).

Dutch had loved her. He had. Hell, he still did--he thought he did, but their time had come and past. He knew that. They weren't meant to travel that road. He knew it all too well, but she was still his. They _all_ were.

“I’m a busy woman, Mr. Van der Linde. I can't stand here all day,” she reminded him, pulling a pack from her waistband. Truthfully, she’d already finished all her chores. She was just going to go for a smoke to calm herself after their prior argument.

Miss Grimshaw placed a cigarette between her lips and put her hands on her hips, waiting for a response.

Instantly, Susan's voice grounded Dutch. He blinked hard and shifted as he studied her.

"Oh, I don't doubt that, Miss Grimshaw," Dutch replied. "I don't doubt that for a second."

The gang leader sauntered closer and rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he regarded her stance. It was almost amusing. Almost.

"Certainly, you could make time for an old _friend_." Dutch offered her a smile and relaxed his posture.

It was the best near apology Dutch could muster as he was still a bit worked up from their discussion a few moments ago...

Then, Dutch brought his thumb and index finger to his mouth; mimicking a smoking gesture.

Susan raised a brow, entirely unamused. “What do you want?” No one asks for her time unless they need something.

Her eyes landed on his gesture and she huffed, taking out another cigarette and holding it out to him. “Here,” she said, “But I doubt that’s all you want. So, out with it.”

Without hesitation, Dutch plucked the cigarette from her fingers, letting his touch hers briefly. He nearly chuckled at her words as he placed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

"Why thank you, Susan," Dutch purred. "You're right. It's not the only thing I want. Perhaps..." Dutch's voice trailed off as his eyes glanced about at the other members of the camp idling about.

"Perhaps..." Dutch dropped his voice a bit lower, took a step forward, and removed the unlit cigarette from his mouth. "...somewhere with less curious ears." He watched her expectantly.

A crimson blush moved into Susan’s cheeks at his words and she cleared her throat, composing herself. Some...not so subtle thoughts had crept into her mind for the first time in a long time, and she had to push them away. He likely wanted to scold her further for speaking to him in such an aggressive manner.

She continued walking and went right past her usual spot, then down towards the shore, and a bit to the right. “Should be far enough,” she said.

Most were usually too caught up in their own conversations to notice Miss Grimshaw’s conversations. In fact, they usually tuned her out altogether. Unless, of course, it seemed to be someone embarrassing her, then they were all ears and all grins. Sometimes she thought she was more of a jester than a camp keeper.

The cherry in Susan's face, he hadn't missed it. He knew his effect on women--his effect on _her_. Her frustration--her embarrassment brought him a twisted sense of delight.

Dutch followed Susan until she halted and spoke. He said nothing, but continued his stride past her, stopped at the water's edge, and lit his cigarette. He stood there, staring straight in front of him, indulging leisurely in the less than premium tobacco as he composed what he might say to her.

Before speaking, Dutch took a rather deep drag and held it until his lungs grew too warm and ached. His posture was stiff and rigid, but relaxed as he exhaled the scorching smoke from his lungs.

"The way you conducted yourself--the disrespect in _my_ camp--in _my_ tent about _my_ woman," Dutch nearly hissed as he continued to glare out across the water. "I don't have that coming from you."

Dutch paused and took another drag. Still, he didn't look at her. He would. Oh, he would, but not yet. Loudly, he exhaled the smoke through his nose.

When Dutch spoke, again, his tone had settled a bit."I won't say I'm right, but I won't say you're wrong, Susan...I did what I thought was best at the time...as I always have, but..."

His words struck a chord and she found herself puffing angrily on her cigarette. She went to pull it away from her lips and, in the process, somehow broke it. Her frustration grew and she cast aside the stupid tobacco.

“ _Your_ woman.” She scoffed. “Since when have you ever cared about _your_ women? Oh--pardon me. I see why my disrespect against Miss O’Shea upset you. Not because you care for her, no. It angered you because _your_ women are your property and to disrespect your property is to shame you. And shame you I did.” Her eyes bore into the back of his skull as she continued. “And, I shall gladly do it again.”

Susan's questions and rationale bothered Dutch greatly. He whirled on her in an instant, discarding what was left of his cigarette, with the intent to not only chew her out, but to also scare her.

"You're right, Susan!" Dutch growled, glaring down at her. "You're so goddamn right! You're--you were always right weren't you? Always right about every goddamn thing!" Dutch huffed and paced a few feet away. He was displeased with himself and his response, but he remained loud. His voice cracked with anger as he continued.

"All of you with your delusions and lack of respect! My head is on the line for you--for all of you! The doubts! The wavering loyalty and faith--Arthur, John, and Hosea were bad enough! I never thought I'd see that day that it hindered you, too!"

“I have always been loyal and--“

Susan stared Dutch down for a few seconds, deciding whether or not she wanted to say what was on her mind. She’d never been so disrespectful towards him before. Why stop now?

“And I have always been faithful! Can you say the same?” She challenged, quirking a brow as she crossed her arms over her chest once more. She leaned toward him, pointing angrily at her chest as she referred to herself. Her voice lowered, taking a harsher tone.

“I follow you blindly. Always have, likely always will. And, how am I repaid for my devotion? Well,” Susan straightened her posture, dropping her hand, “let’s see, you brought another woman into your tent without first casting me aside. Then, when I’d finally taken all my things out, I was stuck sleeping between Leopold Strauss and Simon Pearson. One is gassy and the other snores. Guess which is which. And then, I continue to do your laundry and mend your clothes, because I am a fool.” Her voice wavered and she paused a moment before continuing. “Faith and loyalty is meant to go both ways, Dutch.“

Every word that spewed from her mouth pissed the raven haired man off all the more, but he listened as her utterance burned his ears and ego.

The words--her words stung.

Hard.

Immediately, Dutch wanted to return the spite, but he knew there was some truth in her expressions, but he'd by no means acknowledge it. He wouldn't admit his faults, blunders, or otherwise to her.

Not now.

Not after that.

He wouldn't give her that satisfaction or influence over him.

So, he did the next best thing.

"I don't have to listen to this!" Dutch hissed as he began to stalk even further away from camp. In his fury, Dutch lit another cigarette.

“Right, walk away from your mistakes! It’s what you’re good at!” Susan yelled after him. Part of her wanted to continue arguing. The other part wanted to retreat and recover, and rebury her heart.

Dutch felt something in him snap.

Before he had wits about him, Dutch was in her face, brown eyes narrowed menacingly with his lips pulled into a snarl.

"Who exactly do you think you are?" Dutch whispered darkly, challenging her once more. "Enlighten me. I'd like to know."

Susan went wide eyed, fear creeping into her face. She cast it aside and composed herself, mimicking his expression. “Your door mat--oh, pardon me. You asked who I think I am. Not who you think I am. I’m Susan Grimshaw, the only fool dumb enough to follow you.”

She'd never spoke to him in such a way--never in the twenty years he had known her! It infuriated and thrilled him all at once. Beyond perplexed, Dutch considered her furthered insult and his own retort, but found the proximity and the stress in the air a bit too substantial for his liking. And yet, her brilliant green eyes pulled him in as they often had.

As the last word barely left her rosy lips, Dutch captured them with his own; rough and firm with a calloused hand on her cheek. The hairs of his mustache brushed her skin.

The kiss was warm and over quickly--no more than a few seconds.

Without delay, Dutch retreated a safe distance back to evade the imminent slap. Resentment and longing thudded through his chest.

A shaky sigh escaped Susan's lips as he kissed her. Then, she inhaled sharply, breath hitching as he broke away. Her eyes drifted from his face to the ground as she processed what had just happened.

Like a flame in the rain, her anger was extinguished.

Susan turned on her heel and started back towards camp, momentarily squeezing her eyes shut and clenching her fists. Then, she let go and exhaled slowly.

It was all too much for her. She’s too weak. She can’t handle it. One kiss and her carefully built walls were crashing down around her.

That was unexpected; her reaction.

As Dutch watched Susan walk away from him, as he had done so many times to her, he felt empty. And yet, the emptiness, grief, and lingering anger kept him rooted to where he stood. Her name was on his tongue, but never left his mouth.

Dutch turned from her and the camp. He'd need a moment to contemplate his next move.

Composed and refined, no one would ever guess she was unraveling at the seams. That was because she’d become expert at holding herself together in even the worst situations. But, by the time she reached Strauss’ wagon, she couldn’t do it.

Susan went around the back and leaned against the side, sinking to the ground with a second shaky sigh. Safe from prying eyes, she allowed her thoughts to crash over her.

What was he thinking? He clearly knew she wouldn’t reciprocate, based on the way he had backed up. And yet he had done it anyway. Why? Does he think her a harlot still? Did he do it to shut her up? If so, then it worked very well.

Whatever the reason, it was selfish.

She spent years picking up the pieces of what he broke. And now he was trying to break it again--and doing a fine job at that.

God, she missed Bessie.

* * *

In due course, the gang leader managed to calm his rage. It took nearly two hours of brooding amidst the trees to accomplish that feat. He had sat atop an overturned log, studying the shadows cast by the surrounding timber and wishing things had been different.

The silhouettes gathered; dark, ominous,and menacing. As the sun moved, the figures moved; began closing in on him as the Pinkertons and law were.

For only a moment.

A very brief moment.

A sliver of paranoia caused a very creature and forgotten sense of dread to climb up his spine.

However, as quickly as it came, it went.

They just needed more time.

Dutch needed more time.

After stubbing out a fourth cigarette, some rationale returned to Dutch. He gave a moment to the shadows that encircled him. He smirked. He'd see the gang and himself out of this. No matter how close the darkness got, they'd make it. He was sure of it. All they needed was money, time, and some noise...faith and loyalty...

Shortly thereafter, a composed Dutch's heavy feet and troubled head trekked back to camp. He had been angry with her and even justified and validated his own feelings. This was all of her fault after all. If only she would have stayed in her own lane, out of his tent, and minded her own goddamn--

As he broke the tree line, the smell of Mister Pearson's stew permeated and distracted his senses. It was then that Dutch realized he was quite famished.

The was a low lull of chatter from the rest of the gang. Most sat around either fire and the tables indulging in dinner.

Dutch's gaze flitted around the camp. He didn't see either woman who was a current source of his woes.

Susan had pulled herself together rather quickly, hearing her girls questioning where that "wretched work horse” had gotten off to.

She knew she couldn’t sit and dwell on her emotions. She wasn’t allowed that. She has a camp to run, people to keep in line, and things to clean.

And so, the arbiter returned to work, finishing her chores in record time. Getting the girls to get back to work was easier than usual, for some odd reason. They weren’t scared of her, so why were they listening for once?

That didn’t matter. If they’re working, then why question it?

By the time Dutch entered camp, all was taken care of, and she had moved to the pier and set her boots beside her as she took a seat, dipping her feet into the water and watching as the sun took its leave behind the distant mountains.

So rarely did she permit herself these moments. These moments to indulge in leisurely activities. But the day had been so long and tiresome, that she felt it was deserved.

By the time Mister Pearson plated a serving for Dutch, the shrill sound of Molly's muddled and miserable Irish ambushed his ears. Immediately, his posture went rigid, preparing for an altercation. Mister Pearson and he shared a strange, but knowing look. The portly cook frowned and offered few words.

After a moment, Dutch realized he wasn't the target. Karen could handle herself.

Without skipping a beat, Dutch asked after Miss Grimshaw to which Mister Pearson nodded toward the water.

"Thank you, Mr. Pearson," Dutch offered as he took a second bowl. "For your faithful service."

* * *

Dutch's footfalls were deliberate as he stepped onto the pier. After a few strides, he halted.

There was something calming and peaceful about the water's edge.

All the way by the water, Susan still heard the shrill, cacophonous noise known as Molly O’Shea. She glanced over her shoulder to see her bird-like screeching was directed at Karen. That was none of _her_ business.

Then she spotted Dutch making his way over and quickly looked back to the water. Hadn’t he done enough damage?

The closer he got the more anxious she became. But then he halted and her breathing hitched, anticipating what might come.

After a few moments it dawned on her that he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking to the water, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know what she expected that had made her so anxious, but that didn’t matter.

“It is life, I think, to watch the water." Dutch broke the silence as he resumed his steps toward her. "A man can learn many things.”

With little space between their shoulders, Dutch settled down next to her. Wordlessly, he offered the spare spoon and bowl. He mustered a smile.

_I’m not hungry._

The words were on the tip of her tongue. But, that wouldn’t help anyone. That would just anger him, and she’s far too tired to fight any longer.

Silently, she took the bowl and set it in her lap.

She took a breath.

“Why’d you come over here?”

Before Dutch spoke, he indulged in his food. He dismissed her question as he wasn't quite sure himself other than that he wanted to--he felt compelled for some reason.

As Dutch stared across the lake, the heels and toes of his boots broke the surface of the water.

“The Reverend and I believe that water is the closest thing to God that we have here--on Earth," Dutch offered. " _We_ are in awe of its magnificence and supremacy. _We_ are drawn to it as if it's something magical--a healing force. We are made of water, and must drink water to survive." Dutch paused and shrugged as he finished up his stew and set the bowl aside.

"How lucky for us that we exist in water." Dutch glanced at her then and hoped his peace offering of food and his even and neutral speaking would be enough to show her that he had no ill intention nor did he hold any grudge or otherwise against her.

“Why’d you come over here?” She repeated, not at all impressed with his words.

Dutch's brow creased as if he were disappointed as he pondered his response.

"Because I enjoy doing such things, Miss Grimshaw," Dutch replied and then looked back to the water.

"The water..." Dutch sighed. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

“For God’s sake! Forget about the damn water!” She snapped at him, gripping her bowl and spoon tightly.

Dutch startled so slight at Susan's outburst. His posture stiffened and the frustration of their earlier conversations returned.

"What do you want from me, Susan?!" Dutch's tone rose in volume and intensity, with his voice cracking appropriately. "I'm trying my best here and you lot remain goddamn ungrateful!"

Her blood boiled at his words.

“Ungrateful?” Her voice was quiet, disbelieving. Then she stood, towering over him, and yelled. “UNGRATEFUL? Take a look at your reflection, Van der Linde!” She shoved him in the water and stormed off, not caring of any possible consequence.

By the time Dutch had his mind about him, his was completely submerged in the freezing lake. He hadn't expected her to--

Before Dutch could react or think further, it grew dark, his head ached, and his lungs burned.

Everything ceased.


	2. Tell me this is real.

What felt like years later, Dutch pulled his face from the water and gripped the sides of a wooden container, gasping for air with his chest heaving and eyes screwed shut.

Once composed, Dutch opened his brown eyes and stared into the barrel in utter shock. A different man--a younger man glared back at him with a fresh bruise and broken skin on his brow. He touched the injury and winced.

"What the f--" Dutch struck the water and tore away. In disbelief, he ran his hands over his clean-shaven face and then through his lengthy black hair.

As he paced frantically to the street, Dutch snatched a newspaper from a kid passing by and glanced at the date.

1880, nearly twenty years ago.

Immediately, Dutch thought he was going to be sick.

"Hey, mister! Get yer' own!"

In haste and nearly frantic, Dutch made his approach to the saloon window. He observed his reflection yet again; there were no crow's feet, age lines, or otherwise defects of age. He was young, _all over again_.

"Goddamn," Dutch muttered under his breath. The sinking feeling he had felt earlier in the day returned to his gut. He feared he might be ailing.

But then, he caught sight of _her_ , seated inside; young, beautiful, and alive.

Like he'd seen a ghost, a coldness crept up his spine.

The youthful lady had been thoroughly involved in a conversation with some random woman that had crossed her path. But, something subconscious told her to look up. When she did, she was greeted with the sight of a very distraught looking Dutch.

However, she didn’t wholly take notice of his distress and waved him over cheerily.

The woman that she had been conversing with quickly took her leave, relieved to be able to get back to work.

_Her_ gesture and gaze caused a feeling of dread and fresh sorrow to bloom in Dutch's chest.

This couldn't be happening.

This couldn't be real.

He must have drowned and died by--

Dutch swallowed hard and did his best to compose himself as he rubbed at the abrasion above his left eye.

Pain.

It, the pain, grounded him.

There was no pain in death.

Perhaps, the Reverend was wrong.

Perhaps, this was hell; this was his punishment for the _things_ he'd done in his life.

This is _where_ he had fucked it all up. The moment when he betrayed--

Dutch didn't know how, but he found himself standing next to the woman.

"Hey," Dutch greeted lamely, trying his best to hold himself together. 

“Dutch,” she greeted with a smile. “I was just wondering where you were.” She took in the sight of him overall. “You’re drenched. You get in a fight?” She gestured to his eye.

Dutch observed her for a long moment; even reached for her, but recoiled. This wasn't right--couldn't be right. His soul--the entirety of his being hurt.

"No, I--yeah," Dutch replied, trying his damndest to not stumble over his words as he raked a hand through his still wet hair. "Something like that."

Everything in him was screaming, gnawing, pulling at him to leave this place and return to camp.

But, he had to know.

"Annabelle," Dutch nearly whispered her name as he choked down a near sob in his throat. "Are _you_ real?"

Dutch invaded her space, placing his hands on either side of her delicate face, tilting her head gently, looking her over. Every single detail of her hair and complexion was as he remembered; faultless, striking... He released a shaky breath.

"Tell me this is real," he nearly begged of her.

His question had perplexed her.

“What an odd question. Speaking philosophically, are any of us real?” She quirked a brow as he tilted her head and examined her. She was starting to think he didn’t mean philosophically. “It’s...real?”

Still just as distraught, Dutch leaned in and kissed her while he held her face in his hands.

It was real.

This was real.

Except, it felt wrong.

Oh, so very wrong.

His lips lingered on hers for a moment longer hoping to find some sort of peace or contentment. She was warm, youthful, gorgeous, and breathing. However, he found anything other than what he sought. There would be no clarity for him here.

"I...Annabelle, I have to go now," Dutch told her regretfully. "Some bad...folks might be coming after me." He gestured to his injury as the lie left his mouth.

He had to get to camp.

He had to.

"I don't want you in danger," Dutch said as he leaned in and kissed her, again, but it felt the same. There was no spark, no comfort...just pain and despair as if he were mourning her all over again.

Annabelle reciprocated the embrace, smiling against his lips. She tilted her head to the side and regarded him as he pulled away.

“Oh--okay, stay safe.” Her brows raised in confusion and concern.

She tried to deepen the kiss but then he was pulling away, again.

"If anything were to happen to you, I'd tear the sun from the sky." Despite his inner strife, he regarded her seriously. "When I can...I'll...I..." His words faded. He held her gaze, hoping she'd understand.

At the first sight of his bruise, she knew she wouldn’t be returning to the camp with him.

“I know you don’t. You want me safe. Which is why I don’t understand why you don’t leave that outlaw life of yours and stay with me.” She sighed. “I’ll wait here for your return.”

"I--" Dutch was going to retort and defend _that_ outlaw life of his and how he was fighting for freedom and the like, but settled for a scowl as grief flourished behind his sternum.

_I liked Annabelle._

The image of Colm O'Driscoll slaughtering her in retaliation for Dutch cutting down his brother burned in his mind. A scream, a gunshot, and the spatter of blood--

"I've missed you," Dutch confessed as he embraced her, again. "I've missed you every goddamned day. I--"

* * *

Again, Dutch didn't know how, but he was somehow on an unknown horse and just a little ways off from a camp he fondly remembered.

_Deja vu_ and the feeling of dread was clawing at him.

Then it hit him. Abruptly, he halted the brown mare.

Today was the day that he often reflected on in the wee hours of the night when sleep couldn't find him.

Today was the goddamn day that he had brought Annabelle back to camp.

A few moments later, Dutch rode his horse toward the gang's meager tents. He nearly trampled young Arthur and ignored a blonde Hosea's scolding. His mind was reeling.

"No horses in camp, Dutch!" The young conman reprimanded. "Can't get the boys to listen if you don't!"

“What are you doing?” That familiar feminine voice asked.

At once, Susan Grimshaw's sudden presence stilled, startled, and entranced Dutch. Her voice was lighter. She was as he remembered; unscathed, and beautiful.

Susan exited their tent with her hands on her hips. Her curly auburn hair rested on her shoulders, absent of grays. Her skin was fair and smooth, free of discoloration and wrinkles. Her cheeks, though contoured, weren’t gaunt.

She was young.

“You tryin’ to kill Arthur?” She patted the juvenile boy’s shoulder and gave him a look that suggested he go on his way. Her eyes scanned Dutch, observing his distress.

“Hitch that horse and come back to the tent. I’ll take care of you,” she told him.

Unable to find his voice just yet and for the fear it would crack embarrassingly so, Dutch nodded and did as he was advised.

For a moment, Dutch paused outside his tent and watched as that youthful and handsome Hosea was teaching the boys--his boys--their boys how to carve their own river lures.

Arthur caught Dutch's gaze, grinned, and waved. Then, cuffed little John on the back of his head, rising a chuckle from Dutch and an unamused look and scolding from Mister Matthews.

As Dutch compared the future and his _current_ present, the view warmed and pained his spirit. How far they had fallen from the path they--he had intended for them.

Without further adieu and a heavy heart, Dutch opened the flaps and stepped into _their_ tent. It was sparse, no bookshelves, furs, gramophone, or otherwise.

As soon as he walked in, Susan gently grabbed his hand, pulling him entirely into the tent. Her hands guided him to sit on the cot. She sat beside him, grabbing a wet and cold washcloth, and held it to his eye.

Still just as bewildered as ever, Dutch pliantly followed her lead.

“You wanna tell me what happened? And...why your hair is wet?” She raised a brow and smiled teasingly.

"I..." Dutch winced as she tended to him. All he could do is stare at her; utterly enraptured. She was unmarred and still _his_. He found himself getting lost in those sea-green pools of hers.

It was surreal.

This _was_ the day he brought Annabelle to camp. His memory of any altercation and injury he sustained the same day was hazy and best, but he'd never forget the way Susan had looked at him; the raw betrayal reflecting in those ocean-like eyes that he adored.

"Ain't too sure, but whatever it was...it weren't nothing nice," Dutch replied as he rubbed at his neck. His hair was beginning to dry and frizz at the ends.

"Dunked my head in a barrel to wash up...I guess." Dutch shut his eyes as he recounted seeing Annabelle, again. He wanted to say more, but couldn't think straight. Dark clouds amassed inside his skull.

“When is it somethin’ nice? But I’m sure that the other fella came off worse." Her hand rested on his chest as she dabbed at his eye. “You seem awfully confused about your own whereabouts.” She set the washcloth down and ran a gentle hand through his hair.

“You want to talk about it?” Her voice took a softer tone.

Susan's touch pulled him from his mental anguish, that no one could see or comprehend, and calmed the irate waters of the looming hurricane there.

Almost instantly, Dutch couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips at her endearing gestures.

The tenderness.

The genuine concern.

"I don't think you'd believe me, if I did," Dutch said slowly as the overwhelming urge to capture her lips developed. His hand came to rest upon hers at his chest. He looked up at her.

“Maybe not,” Susan shrugged her shoulders, smiling as his hand covered hers.“That kind of day, hm? No worries, dear. You’re back in camp now.”

Understanding.

She was completely accommodating, accepting, and supporting of his life--this life.

Their life.

Annabelle wanted him to leave _that_ outlaw life as she called it and take up honest work. Was Dutch van der Linde, a no good outlaw, supposed to take up residency in some city and making a meager livelihood as a factory worker? A blacksmith? A carpenter? A store clerk?

What was worse, he knew what would befall her if he brought her back; Colm O'Driscoll.

The bizarre exchange between Annabelle and Dutch left him questioning everything he thought he ever knew for certain and how he felt about her. That shocked him. He had thought that Annabelle was the love of his life...he _had_ missed her.

Upon Annabelle's murder, heartache and failure had become like a red hot coal placed into his chest; it had blazed and scalded him. It throbbed and tortured him in all his waking hours with no relief to be found; he had shutdown for weeks--months. His memory was consumed with thoughts of her--bittersweet.

And then, there was the woman in front of him; Susan Grimshaw. This woman was devoted, faithful, loyal--all the things he wasn't.

"Remind me why you put up with me?" Dutch requested.

Susan was used to his odd inquiries. Mostly, they were philosophical, but she could never wrap her head about those types of things. Nevertheless, she tried.

“Because I love you.”

Without another word, Dutch pulled Susan against him, hugging at her torso and waist. He buried his face against her dress and winced a bit as the fabric was abrasive to his broken skin.

_Because I love you._

"Tell me more," Dutch urgered her. "Tell me why me and not Hosea or another...mister."

Susan's brows furrowed with concern. Dutch usually wasn’t so needy unless something had happened; something that scared him or saddened him. Gently, she gripped the back of his head with one hand and rubbed circles on his back with the other.

“Hosea? Another mister? I don’t love them. I love you. You’re smart, caring, and you’ve got a big heart. Always trying to help wayward souls. You’re a good man. The best I could ask for...” She sighed and stared at the tent wall.

“I felt guilty for loving you at first. I was afraid that my Thomas wouldn’t like me moving on. So I prayed for a sign...a sign that he approved of you...and he did." Susan kissed the top of his head.

Guilt and surety smacked Dutch in the chest like a goddamn freight train. He'd been unfaithful and she believed him to be a good man and more. Her faith--her loyalty ran deeper than anyone's and he made a fool of her. After all, he had planned to bring Annabelle here today and he would have...but...

Whatever in the universe lead him to this moment--this opportunity, he would not squander it.

Dutch held her tighter. He wouldn't betray her _this_ time. He hoped his future self would leave Molly O'Shea out of it, too. He supposed he wouldn't know unless he returned to his time...perhaps, he was foolish to think he could return at all.

"Susan," Dutch mumbled against her skirts. "You're a good woman. Thank you."

“I don’t know about that, but I appreciate the sentiment.” Her hand continued to run through his hair. “What’s got you so on edge?”

Once again, Dutch hesitated. "You're not gonna like it," he admitted as he pulled back so he could stare up into those sea-green eyes.

“The truth...can be a godsend, or it can be disgusting and...and vile...but it always comes to light.”

Dutch sighed. Her words made it worse--made it all worse.

"I've seen the future, Susan," Dutch started cautiously, yet seriously. "We've strayed from where we intended to be. Utmost, I don't want to lose you or any of them, _again_." He gestured outside to the boys and Hosea. He didn't want the doubts; their doubts was too much to bare.

"Be angry with me if you must." Dutch hung his head as he exhaled. "Hell, I'd understand if you'd strike me."

Dutch grew quiet once more. It was such a rare thing for him, but he felt shame. Once more, he buried his face against her skirts. He was afraid to own up to his _mistake_.

"Even the greatest men have moments of weakness," Dutch articulated as he kept his gaze downcast. "I...I considered making a fool of us _both_ today, but I couldn't and I didn't. I choose not to. I choose to come back to camp...I chose _you_."

His words confused her and she didn’t believe him, just like he said. It was such an outrageous thing to say.

_I’ve seen the future._

And yet.. she knew he was telling the truth.

_Even the greatest men have moments of weakness._

His words were so vague but part of her knew what he had done--what he was going to do. And, it sickened her--made her heart ache.

“No more women...please.” Her voice was quiet.

The next three syllables that he uttered were the most difficult of all. He'd definitely never made a habit of apologizing or taking responsibility for his actions, and rarely had he ever meant it.

At that moment in time, Dutch didn't care about anything other than preserving her as his. He'd do whatever he must; whatever was necessary.

"I'm sorry," Dutch said as he clutched at her. At his declaration of remorse, his eyes burned and he braced himself for the slap he assumed would follow.

She took a deep breath.

An apology from anyone else wouldn’t matter. But from _him_? An apology from him could end wars.

Susan knew he meant it. And, she understood why he did it. He was stressed, and whoever this woman was, was his distraction. For so long, it had been her job to distract men from the problems in their life. Even the most loyal of men found themselves paying for a pretty little _distraction_ like herself.

“It’s okay.”

Relief washed over Dutch, but the pangs of guilt remained.

"Thank you," Dutch uttered as he pulled back from her. He patted the cot next to him.

There was so much he wanted to say and do, but--

"I'm not sure how much time I have left before I must return..." Dutch knew he sounded crazy. At the risk of sounding completely batshit and her brushing him off, he held his tongue.

“To the future?”

Why does she believe him?

Because she’s a dumb fool.

He nodded.

Certainly, there must be rules for such things as this. Dutch hoped he would wake up from this eccentric dream, but the pain and otherwise worldly discomforts he felt _here_ were too encouraging--too real.

The way _he_ acted made it seem like he’d disappear--like she’d never see him again.

If that’s what would happen...she wasn't too sure that she can handle that.

As Susan sat beside him, her composure fell. She pressed her face into his chest and wrapped her arms tightly around him. If he was to leave, she’d love him as much as she could before he’s gone.

Dutch returned the embrace and held her just as tightly to him. "We're older _there_...of course we," Dutch mused. "I'll tell you about more about it once--"

Abruptly, it felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs. His heart hammered within it's confines.

What if...

No...

What if Colm killed her instead...

Could he prevent such a thing?

Good God, he feared leaving.

With brows furrowed, Susan pulled back some to see his expression. Her hand gently cupped his cheek.

“Dear? Are you okay?”

"I may have just doomed us both." His stare was sullen.

“I highly doubt that.”

"You better be there when I get back." Dutch continued to look intently at her.

“Be where..?”

Dutch's brain was moving a million miles a minute.

"I swear if he kills _you_ instead of _her_ \--" He stopped himself.

"Forget it." Dutch sighed and spoke slowly with confidence. "It will be different _this_ time."

Fear flooded into her face. “Who? Am I--am I gonna die?”

In concern, Dutch's eyes grew wide; he hadn't meant to frighten her. He pulled her against his chest once more.

"I'll keep you safe," Dutch assured her. "But for some reason if I have it in my mind to kill Colm O'Driscoll's only brother, do whatever you must to stop me. Hell, tell Hosea if you must. Whatever the cost, stop me."

“Colm--“

Is that the man that might kill her?

“I’ll try my hardest to stop you,” she said, resigned.

Dutch pressed his lips to the smooth skin of her temple.

How he'd like to get lost in this instant with her...perpetually.

"I'm not sure how much time we've got," Dutch mumbled against her smooth skin. "What would you have me do?"

“Just hold me. Love me. Please.”

That was all she wanted. His arms about her. She found comfort in his embrace.

"I will."

Dutch maneuvered them both so they were lying down. He kept her in his arms.

As soon as his head graced the pillow, an overwhelming feeling of lethargy struck him. His head was heavy and his vision grew dim.

Susan kept her arms around him and her head on his chest.

"I'll see you soon," he found himself saying softly as he rubbed her back.

A soft sigh escaped her as he soothed her.

She knew this was it. He had to leave now. “Goodbye.”

* * *

_Goodbye_.

That word in her voice echoed in his brain as he succumbed to the water.

_Water_.

A strangled and hacking cough forced the sour liquid from his lungs. Dutch rolled over to his side and expelled it. A coughing fit continued until his chest was empty and his throat and sinuses were sore.

Panic set in as he flipped onto his back and stared up at the darkening sky. His chest still heaved. He was soaking wet and freezing.

Where was _she_?

* * *

Susan was the first one to notice Dutch.

She ran over and knelt beside him, hands on his chest.

“Dutch?! Dutch! Are you okay? Can you breathe?” She was panicked and obviously concerned.

"Susan! You--you're safe!" Dutch managed between coughs and labored breaths. He closed his eyes.

_Thank God._

“What on earth are you talkin’ ab--hey! Wake up!” She slapped his chest a little more harshly than necessary, terrified that he was giving in to death.

Dutch's eyes blew wide when she struck him and he grabbed at her, trying to pull her down to him.

"'M fine," he protested with a cough.

“Clearly not! You damn near drowned!” She didn’t protest to being pulled down despite the fact he was drenched.

Dutch held her against his chest as he listened to her and his breathing evened out.

“I’ll go wake Miss O’Shea.”

_Miss O'Shea._

Once _that_ registered, he lost it.

"What the fuck!?" Dutch roared as he sat them both up, holding Susan at her shoulders, staring at her in disbelief. His soaking clothes and discomforts were totally forgotten.

Susan startled at his outburst, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. With the back of her hand she felt his forehead, trying to determine if he had a fever.

Her concern had been wavering before, but now it was full strength.

"You mean to tell me that after all of that--that I still--Susan, I--what about Annabelle--I-"

A coughing fit interrupted, Dutch's mental groping.

"Don't wake _her_ ," he said adamantly.

“Who’s Annabelle?”

It had been real. He had changed things... _some_ things.

But, the way she was looking at him, he wasn't sure he should tell her, but he couldn't help himself. The grief was too much.

"She was the one...that I didn't bring to camp." Dutch wanted her to remember their conversation they had that day. "When I returned injured, riding my horse into camp--nearly running over young Arthur..." He stared at her expectantly.

The moment the first sentence left his lips, she knew what he was talking about.

“I remember...” She stood, moving away slightly.

This was him returning from that day, wasn’t it? What had he expected to find when he came back? Her on his arm still?

“But then, you brought Miss O’Shea to camp. A year or so ago, now...but don’t worry. I made sure you didn’t go after Colm’s brother."

Dutch scrambled to his feet after her, pulling at his wet clothes as he moved.

"What do you mean I brought--what happened?" Dutch was at a loss and felt a strange sense of disbelief and self-treachery. He completely disregarded her comment about Colm.

"I was supposed to be with you--that's what I chose!" He defended.

His words confused her. He was digging in wounds that were barely starting to heal.

“Obviously not! You met _her_ in some city and brought her to camp and cast me aside! Don’t ask me why. I wouldn’t know! I thought we were happy!”

Susan backed up a few more steps.

"Susan..." Dutch followed as her words punched his soul. They'd been together nearly twenty years--happily and he'd thrown it away. He felt sick. Perhaps, if he could touch her--make her see--

Susan took unsteady breaths, glancing about in a slightly panicked fashion. She had no idea what to do or what to say.

It was all too much for her.

"My intention was to be with you!" He exclaimed. "How was I supposed to know that _she_ would be here when I got back!?" He reached for her, again.

The aching in her throat made her aware of the tears she was holding back. She moved just out of his reach, arms wrapping around herself.

“I don’t care what your intention was! You may not remember doing it but you are still the same man who replaced me!” Her voice was trembling and hoarse, heavy with emotion.

The pain was still so fresh.

As Dutch watched her body language and listened to her words, he recognized that he failed.

Those blurry sea-green eyes and that broken voice...

Furthermore, Dutch felt similar passion growing within his own chest. He felt betrayed by his own doing. He had to get to her somehow.

Despite his high strung emotions and nearly drowning, he did his best to speak calmly and maintain eye contact.

"I understand this is a lot to take in and you're angry with me, but I need you to hear me out, Susan. All right?" In surrender, he held up his hands

She sniffled and nodded, willing to listen.

"That day I told you I saw the future, and that I chose--chose you, that was just a few moments ago for me. That was _me_ and that was _real_." His restraint faltered.

His words had begun to get through to her but his waver in self-control put her back on edge.

"I don't know what this is!" Dutch gestured wildly to the entire camp as his eyes burned and voice cracked. "I didn't want _this_. I want _you_!"

Dutch was willing to get desperate. Hell, he already was. He wanted _her_. It was supposed to be _her_. He had made his choice.

“I don’t...I...I ain’t too sure what to-to say...or-or do...That was a few moments ago for you. That was years ago for me, and so much has happened in the meantime...”

A few ragged breaths left Dutch as he regarded her. Frustrated tears stung at his eyes, but they didn't fall. He was the most distraught he had ever been in his entire life.

"I'm sorry," Dutch said gently. It came easier this time; the apology. He tried to keep his voice low as he closed the distance between them. He reserved his soaking wet body to himself.

"I'm sorry, Susan, but so help me--1899 or not, half drowned or otherwise, I'll make love to you right _here_ and _now_." He pointed at the ground and held her gaze. Passion confirmed by severe intention blazing in his dark eyes.

Unnoticeable in the gloom of night, a bright blush crept up Susan’s neck and into her cheeks. Her eyes went wide and she froze, just staring at him.

“I don’t care about sex, Dutch. I’m--I’m old. I want love. Sex is just...it’s not a sign of love.”

"Susan..." Dutch fumbled for a moment as he regained some of his composure. He blamed his lack of lexicon on what he'd been through to get back here, but in that moment, he did _want_ her.

The nightly breeze was cutting through his clothing, causing him great discomfort, and chilling his _excitement_.

"I'd like to get warm," Dutch admitted. "And, I'd like you to stay with me."

Susan momentarily looked away, sighing. Then, she nodded and guided him into camp, hand on his back, towards the pallet she shared with Strauss and Pearson.

Everyone was asleep or too drunk to notice them.

She grabbed a pair of clean, folded clothes from the basket that sat in her spot, and handed them to him.

“Change behind the wagon or your tent. But Molly’s in there,” Susan warned.

Gratefully, Dutch took the clothes she offered him and heeded her words. He opted for behind the wagon. It was dark enough that he wasn't concerned. Honestly, Molly was the last person he wanted to see right now.

After a few curses and a bit of struggle, Dutch had managed to wrestle out of his soaked clothing. The pants were particularly difficult; clinging to his chilled skin and all.

Susan patiently waited, arms about herself. When she guessed he finished, she grabbed a blanket and brought it behind the wagon for him. The problem being that he had his clothes off but hadn’t put the dry ones on yet. However, her composure didn't waver as she set the blanket with his clothes.

In the dark, Dutch smirked at Susan's presence. Hurriedly, he pulled on the dry trousers and shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. He was eager for her company as he tossed the blanket around his shoulders.

Relief from the cold was nearly immediate.

"I'll stay with you and...Herr Strauss or we can find somewhere else to...are any of the boys away...?" He asked.

“Um...” Her eyes drifted away from him as she tried to think. “Arthur is. He went off on some adventure to...what was it...find ‘dinosaur bones’? I’m not even sure what a dinosaur is. Oh, and John is doing something, but I don’t know what.”

Under other circumstances, Dutch may have chuckled at Susan's remark regarding the aforementioned dinosaur bones, but the glaring reality that he'd still casted Susan aside--and then, even that Annabelle might be out there somewhere in the world alive and breathing--and that Molly O'Shea was in _his_ goddamn tent--he remained astonished by grief and bafflement, which he did his best to mask it with surety and confidence.

His _best_.

It seemed, no matter what he changed in the past...Dutch van der Linde still managed to fuck up the goddamn future...

Briefly, Dutch's perplexed mind wandered around to the idea that he hadn't spilled any O'Driscoll blood after all...he had listened to her as she listened to him. But...

Still, Dutch couldn't understand nor remember--not even for all the gold they'd stolen in Blackwater--as to why the hell he'd gone and ruined this, _again_.

But, he must have had a good reason?

Perhaps, Susan had betrayed him?

As soon as he considered that, he felt like a fool. She'd never do that as she was a fool, too.

Before he spoke, the gang leader buried his time travel induced affliction.

"What's it gonna be then, Miss Grimshaw?" Dutch asked as he picked up his boots. "Your pallet or Mister Morgan's...?"

“To...sleep..?”

"Sure."

She breathed a slight sigh of relief. Part of her thought he expected something more of her.

“Arthur’s cot.”

A bit clumsily on his bare feet, Dutch navigated toward Arthur's tent. He ignored the soft glow of few lanterns, snoring, and the crackle of campfires. His heart and head were heavy; his lungs and sinuses were still discomforted. Yet, he was thankful that the camp was asleep so they might not see him in his current state.

Upon the confirmation that his enforcer was indeed out and about in search of giant reptile bones, Dutch dropped his boots with a thud and flopped ungracefully onto the bedding with a loud exhale and grunt.

Susan had followed closely, twisting and pulling her fingers in the other hand. At the opening of the tent, she stopped and stared.

“Well...I’ll...I’ll see you in the morning... Hopefully, you don’t go time jumping again...” She tried to smile and make light of the situation, but her heart wasn’t in it.

"Stay with me, Susan." The nearly drowned man's voice was rough with exertion. He turned his head and stared at her silhouette. "Stay with me."

She shouldn’t.

Miss O’Shea is not but nine feet away.

She shouldn’t.

But despite her reserves, she gravitated towards him.

Slowly, Susan laid beside him, putting her head and hand on his chest, like she used to.

“I don’t know why you want me around so bad...I’m not the young woman you remember from an hour ago. I’m...I ain’t got any beauty left.”

Dutch closed his eyes and sighed as he savored the weight of her on his chest and against his side. He was troubled; deeply so.

"I..."

He hadn't fixed _this_.

Despite it all, he had still failed her--failed them all.

Another pestering question formed at the tip of her tongue and her lips pulled back, ready to ask it--

"We'll figure it out in the morning..." He assured as he wrapped a firm arm around her. "I--I got plan."

“Okay...” She sighed, closing her eyes.

They’ll figure it out in the morning.

* * *

Morning came and still, the two slept, enjoying each other’s warmth.

That is, until Molly O’Shea came along, voice as shrill and haunting as ever--at least, that’s how Susan would describe it.

“Dutch?! What are you doin’ with this hag? I thought you loved me! But I thought wrong!” She moved closer to them, fuming.

The piercing accusations sputtering from the Irish woman's mouth, rudely awakened Dutch. The abrupt loss of warmth and weight from Susan startled him further, but his attention was demanded by the irate redhead before him.

Not that Molly took notice, but the yelling had startled Susan and caused her to fall off the cot. The brunt of her anger was focused on Dutch.

Blinking hard, Dutch pushed himself into a seated position on Arthur's cot, hastily reaching down to and pulling Susan up.

Molly continued her verbal assault. “What a fool you’re making of yourself! Of both of us! You bastard! I hope you rot!”

Dutch muttered a curse as he gave Susan a brief glance, and scowled at Molly, nearly baring his teeth at her as he stood as a human shield between Susan and she. He puffed his chest out and crossed his arms with fury evident on his face.

Complete and utter embarrassment built in her chest and expression as Susan got up. If Dutch hadn’t moved in front of her, she would’ve ran—would’ve hidden—but he did and so she decided she’d stay with him during Miss O’Shea’s outburst.

The memory of drowning, changing the past, choosing Susan, forgoing Annabelle, and now this--

Usually, the gang leader was dismissive and discounted--hell, he even brushed off Miss O'Shea's delusions and moods, but this time--this time he found that he couldn't, but he'd do his damndest to remain calm. He wouldn't--couldn't let _her_ get the best of him, again. Specifically, his selfishness and need to preserve this newfound thing between him and Susan--

"I. Have. Had. Enough. Of. Your. Mouth " Dutch said the words slowly, unsympathetically.

“And I have had enough of your cold heart, Dutch Van der Linde!” Molly retorted, leaning up into his face.

"Take a walk, Miss O'Shea," Dutch ordered and gestured for her to leave Mister Morgan's tent.

Her demeanor only worsened as he continued to speak. “A...A walk?“ The Irish woman exhaled shakily then slapped him with all her might—intent on leaving a mark.

Unfortunately for her, so was Susan.

The dark haired woman pushed past her angered protector and landed her fist square on Molly’s nose.

The younger woman stumbled in an attempt to catch herself before eventually falling on her ass.

"Enough!" Dutch roared with an intensity rarely witnessed by anyone as he stepped between the two hostile women. He glared at each of them; a warning flashed over his features. Already, color formed at his cheek. His lips curled back in a feral gesture.

Beleaguered, over stimulated, and with a bruised facade and ego, Dutch was near his wit's end; he couldn't take anymore.

"You!" Dutch growled as he pointed at Susan. His dark eyes burned with intensity."I think it's best you leave."

Then, he whirled around on Molly with his fists clenched. "Miss O'Shea and I need to have a _conversation_."

Susan had worn a smug smirk, placing her hands on her hips as she glared at the younger woman — until Dutch glared down at her. The glare alone wiped the look from her face and caused her to drop her arms.

But, his tone threw her off. With brows furrowed and mouth slightly parted, she took a step back.

“Me? But--but I-I was just--she--you...you...” She trailed off and stared at him with hurt and disbelief.

“Fine!”

Susan should’ve known better than to spend the night with him.

She should’ve known better.

Susan huffed and stormed away, not giving either of them a second look. She held her bruised hand to her chest and made her way towards the shoreline.

* * *

Sometime later, a still irritated and injured Dutch made his way down to the water with a pack of cigarettes in hand and one already lit in the corner of his mouth.

Without a word, Dutch stepped up next to Susan and held out the pack to her, but kept his eyes averted to the murky lake in front of them.

Susan glanced at the pack and shook her head. The last thing she wanted to do was take anything from _him_.

“What do you want?”

"To make amends," Dutch replied, turned his head, and offered the pack once more.

“What? The great Dutch van der Linde makes amends now?”

For a long spell, Dutch just stared at her in disbelief. Then, it festered into further irritation. He exhaled smoke loudly threw his nose and stowed the pack of cigarettes in his vest pocket. Afterward, he stared out at the lake, again.

"Suppose I was a fool to think that things would--could change..." Dutch let his frustrated words fade off as he took a deep drag and touched the handprint bruise on his cheek, wincing just a bit; the skin still stung and was hot under his fingers.

“So was I. After all, I’ve known you twenty years...”

Susan flexed her hand, observing the blue and purpled skin of her knuckles—her own parting gift from her...altercation with Miss O’Shea.

“So I, of all people, should know that you could never fully love a woman once she’s lost her beauty,” Susan said.

Perhaps, she was right...

Of course she was.

She always was.

As his head swam with half-formed regrets, sickness rose and swirled around in Dutch's stomach. As it struggled to maintain a stable beat, his heart felt as if his blood had turned into tar.

There was nowhere Dutch could go from here. He knew it now. No matter the choice, he'd still lost them all.

There was nowhere that the truth of who he was, the conditionality of his love--regardless of the change he made; his shallow and erratic nature would continue to rise to the top.

Molly was a pretty face and a hot temper. He _liked_ Annabelle--flawless and elegant--and he'd let her go to be with Susan, who was his most devoted and dearest friend, but somewhere and someway--somehow, unbeknownst to him, he had still chosen Molly.

Maybe love wasn’t enough after all. Not when every last obstacle of his own making and not was rallied against him, all the--his chances and choices heaped against him to make _them_ fail. Fate, time, and choice--his choice kept them apart; it was all futile and predetermined.

“Ok,” Dutch said, as somewhere in a dark corner of the cosmos, he was convinced, that God was laughing at them—at him.

“Ok,” Dutch repeated as he took another long drag and stared at her with eyes like thunderclouds.

“I have always had so much faith in you—faith that you’ll see us right. Faith that you’ll put us before anything else. Faith that you’ll protect us.” Susan's eyes shifted to the vast blue before them; that seemingly infinite water that called her name. “But, I don’t have faith that you are capable of love—whether it be man or woman or horse.”

Susan's words cut him deeper than any knife ever could--ripped him open more so than any bullet that had ever pierced his flesh, but what hurt the most is that he recognized each and every word she had uttered as finite fact. He couldn't shake the agony that followed.

It was all too much.

Too true.

Finally, as he stood, heart fractured and mind exhausted, it was then that it occurred to Dutch. It was in his selfishness that his defect laid. He'd remain incapable of loving others just as he was incapable of loving...himself.

Those dark eyes grew heavier and gave him away with their iciness, cold and near lifeless. He gave a silent moment to _her_ and then to the water that lapped at the shore.

He wanted to love her.

He had wanted to love them all.

No matter his efforts and determination, he'd never be able to fight his own nature.

Ashamed.

Indifferent.

But, he couldn't help but be that way.

And, drowning was far easier than admitting that he was terrified that he was incapable of love. 

And with that, he took the plunge.

Prior to Susan even having her wits about her, he was gone.

Before she could even process his actions, she was following.

The water had, after all, been calling her name.

And, it seemed, it had been calling his too.

It made sense, to her.

For years, they’d been stuck in an endless dance of love and hate—and there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

After Dutch committed to the watery submission--after the cold dark enveloped him--after he was chilled to the bone, there was a disturbance in the murky depths.

Instantly, his eyes snapped open as a familiar body bumped into his own beneath the surface.

It was she.

Loyal.

Faithful.

Devoted.

Till the end.

Completely submerged, Dutch screamed as his heart dove to the bottom of the lake.

All that was important was this singular moment in movement.

His lungs void of any air, an inhuman strength enabled him to drag them both from their to-be wet grave.

Chest heaving, heart beating, lungs gasping for air; he collapsed over her on the shore.

The past was _gone_.

Breathless and shuddering, Dutch kissed her and kissed her over and over; wildly and passionately as if his life and her life depended on it.

The future had yet to _begin_. 

Before she could even ask why—before she could even take a breath—his lips were on hers and they were kissing over and over; practically devouring each other. The yelling of her heart to continue drowned out the screams of her lungs, which so desperately wanted air. But, that didn’t matter. They would get their air, once her heart was satisfied.

The present was _now_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest Reader,
> 
> We hope you enjoyed this little project of ours. As always, feel free to let us know how you did or didn't like it. All types of criticisms are welcomed here. Thanks for reading and the kudos!
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